The Promise

by May McGoldrick

  “That all sounds very well, Mrs. Trent. Will you thank her for me?” Rebecca asked as her gaze again returned to Jamey. To her delight, he was actually speaking to Mr. Clarke, who was nodding his head vigorously at the boy’s responses.

  “I’m afraid that won’t do, Mrs. Ford. Won’t do at all!”

  The housekeeper’s emphatic reply drew Rebecca’s attention again. For the short time that she’d been here, Rebecca had already noticed that, good-natured as she was, Mrs. Trent was generally quite emphatic about the way that things must be done. A positive quality, she knew, for someone with such important responsibilities. Managing a country manor like this one was not a task for the indecisive.

  “When his lordship left us for town,” the housekeeper went on, “he made a point of reminding me that I was to see to a new wardrobe for you. Now, I am not one to be reminded of my duties, Mrs. Ford. When we sent word in to St. Albans yesterday morning about the shirts, I also sent along a girl with specific instructions. A girl just about your size--”

  “I am quite happy with what I have, Mrs. Trent. I don’t believe that I need to be burdening Lord Stanmore with such unnecessary expenses.”

  The housekeeper shook her head, frowning as she surveyed Rebecca’s gray dress.

  “There is plenty of wear left in this dress, Mrs. Trent.”

  “Aye, ma’am, but it will not do, not even for a country dress.” The woman’s face showed that there would be no further discussion. “Mrs. Ford, you are in England, now, and a guest of his lordship. We mustn’t allow your good heart to interfere with what must be done. With your help or without, I will simply have to order at least a dozen dresses for different times of the day, and for the occasions that will present themselves during your stay. You won’t be dancing in any dress that is suitable for winter in the colonies, I can tell you.”

  “Dancing? Mrs. Trent, I have no plans for such socializing while I am here.”

  “’Tis my duty to see that you are prepared, Mrs. Ford, and that’s all there is to say on the matter.”

  “But, honestly, I—”

  “His lordship will brook no ‘buts,’ ma’am. You don’t want an old servant like me put out for shirking her duties, do you?”

  “No, of course not! But I—”

  “Very well, then.” The housekeeper patted Rebecca’s hand. “We shan’t overdo things. You’ll see.”

  Rebecca sighed resignedly, and Mrs. Trent smiled.

  “In the good old days, when we’d have folk in for dinner parties twice a sennight, at least—with a garden party on the weekend and a ball here and there—I would never have recommended a dress from a shop in St. Albans.” The housekeeper glanced nostalgically at the portraits adorning the walls. “In those days, Daniel—or his father before him—would have been calling for a coach and grooms to take you to Oxford Street in London for your shopping. Why, we’d visit every dressmaker’s shop and clothier’s warehouse in the city. But if you went now, I would be asking you to stop at Wedgewood’s place on Great Newport Street. His Etruria Ware is all the rage, you know!”

  “No, I didn’t know,” Rebecca replied, suppressing a smile.

  “From what I hear, he has a great room in which they deck out the cabinets and vases, and set the places at table…just like an elegant dinner party! Why, every few days they alter everything…so the ladies fancy going back quite often.” She let out a longing sigh. “It has been a very long time since I was blessed with making the arrangements for a party!”

  “The earl’s wife must have been fond of them.”

  The housekeeper frowned deeply. “I suppose she was…not that I’d know, mind you. After all, we were not good enough here in the country to put on a party for her. She would entertain up in London…or at his lordship’s other homes in Bristol, or in Bath. Aye, she was sure to choose anywhere over Solgrave, though I don’t know why, I’m sure.”

  There were so many questions Rebecca had about Elizabeth—questions Mrs. Trent might be able to answer. But seeing the housekeeper’s obvious disapproval of the late Lady Stanmore—the grudge that clearly had not diminished even after so many years—she decided not to press for information right now.

  “Now, his lordship’s mother…now, there’s a lady who was famous for her entertaining. Why, the grand parties she presided over here at Solgrave! My dear, I could tell you stories…”

  Mrs. Trent’s voice trailed off, lost for the moment in her happy thoughts, and Rebecca turned her attention to her favorite view, outside. Jamey was leaning over Mr. Clarke’s shoulder and looking at a book the teacher had open.

  “Mrs. Ford, you are surely a good-hearted woman. We’ve not had a guest like you at Solgrave in a dog’s age.” Clearly, all thoughts of fashionable tableware and parties were now forgotten.

  “I am not having a dozen dresses made for me, Mrs. Trent.”

  “Truly, I know you wouldn’t want his lordship beating an old woman like me over something so easily resolved now, would you?””

  She turned and met the housekeeper’s forlorn look. Rebecca couldn’t stop a smile from breaking across her lips at this new tactic.

  “I knew you’d see it my way. We don’t have to argue over numbers, ma’am. You just be a dear and come with me.”

  Reluctantly, Rebecca found herself being led toward the east wing, where the seamstress and her assistant were no doubt lying in ambush.

  “Now, don’t be alarmed when you see what they’ve brought along. What, with the King’s Birthday celebrations not far off, the woman has been busy as can be, but she dropped everything to put together a few things that may just fit you…with a tuck here or there.”

  Rebecca came to stop. “Dresses already made? ”

  “If they fit—and I think they will—and if you fancy them, you’ll be doing this hardworking seamstress and her three young ones a great favor.”

  “Mrs. Trent…”

  “No arguing, my dear.” The heavyset woman nudged Rebecca with her elbow. “If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it for Master James. Knebworth Village belongs to his lordship, you know, and during the King’s Birthday festivities, the entire household will be going down there. Mind you, there’ll be many an eye clapped on the lad and on the mysterious lady who’s been taking such good care of him for all these years.”

  Rebecca stared down at tips of her worn shoes and stifled the urge to say that she’d prefer to stay behind.

  “Picture it, ma’am. You walking to the village at the lad’s side, proud as a mother hen—as you should be—and dressed the way a lady of your position should be dressed. Seeing you, everyone will know that Master James was brought up proper, and all’s well! But if you don’t do as I bid, the poor dear will suffer the barbs of those wagging village tongues for years!”

  Rebecca wished she could argue against the housekeeper. She herself had been raised alongside girls from some of the finest families. She well understood the need for such display in certain situations.

  Scolding herself for not seeing to this before leaving Pennsylvania, she followed Mrs. Trent to the door of the sewing room. It would have been a great deal more reasonable to have a dress or two made in Philadelphia than what it would be here. She hated the thought of owing anything to Lord Stanmore. She had no wish to be paid for her efforts on Jamey’s behalf.

  The dressmaker, Mrs. Pringle, turned out to be a very thin and energetic woman with the face of a person who was perpetually harried, as if the sky were about to fall at any moment. By the time Rebecca and Mrs. Trent entered, the woman and her silent assistant had already laid out at least a half-dozen dresses for daily wear and for wear in the evening, several styles of chemises and hooped petticoats, three different pinafores (plain or with lace and bows), two wide-rimmed straw hats (that she had taken the liberty of picking up from her friend Mrs. Grant, a neighboring milliner in St. Albans), and a dazzling array of ribbons, bows, gloves, linen scarves, and other accessories.

  After Mrs. Pringle had cast a
professional eye over Rebecca, her thin lips turned up in a momentary smile.

  “I just knew, Mrs. Trent. I just knew. Mrs. Ford, these dresses will look beautiful on you. I took one look at that girl you sent in, and I said to my husband—he’s the finest tailor in St. Albans, don’t you know! ‘Mr. Pringle,’ I said, ‘we’ll make up some dresses that’ll look beautiful on this Mrs. Ford. And here, I was right. Why, just look at them!”

  Rebecca watched uncomfortably as, one after the other, dresses of muslin and embroidered linen in prettiest shades of peach and cream, green and blue, were laid out before her. Each was adorned with fine lace, and every one was prettier than anything she’d worn since leaving Mrs. Stockdale’s school in Oxford.

  A vague queasiness settled in the pit of her stomach.

  Modesty, chastity, virtue. The words came back to her. Draw no attention to yourself, Rebecca Neville. Modesty, chastity, virtue. Her schoolmistress had been tenacious in preaching the value of virtue to the young Miss Neville. Then, without warning, the thought of Sir Charles Hartington in a library in London suddenly emerged from the dark recesses of her mind. Even as she fought back the bile rising in her throat, Mrs. Stockdale’s words continued to ring in her ears.

  Thoughts of those last days in London so distracted Rebecca that she suddenly found herself standing on a stepstool, as Mrs. Pringle and Mrs. Trent busily discussed which dress should be tried on her first.

  Rebecca blushed fiercely as the dressmaker unbuttoned the gray wool dress, helped her to step out of it, and then without ceremony cast it aside. In a moment, she was standing in a dress the color of ripe peaches and looking at herself in a mirror held by Mrs. Pringle’s assistant.

  “I believe you are right, Mrs. Trent,” the dressmaker was saying. “This flowered sprig muslin is very becoming on her. Just dark enough to bring out the color in her hair and accentuate her complexion. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Ford?”

  As the two women chatted away, holding up pinafores and scarves and ribbons to the dress, Rebecca gazed at the low neckline. At the yards of lace that were layered in the sleeves and the full skirt. Before she could voice an objection though, Mrs. Pringle pulled the pins out of Rebecca’s hair. Rich waves of red and gold cascaded down over her shoulders.

  “Oh, my!”

  Mrs. Trent’s exclamation was silently seconded by the delight in the eyes of the girl holding the mirror.

  “I declare, Mrs. Ford,” the housekeeper said brightly, “If we work in a ribbon here and there, you will match the most beautiful lady ever to pass through the gates of Solgrave…and this is just a day dress!”

  “’Tis true, ma’am,” Mrs. Pringle said emphatically. “St. Albans would close up shop and put on an assembly for you, if you were to come to town.”

  “I believe you’re on to something, Mrs. Pringle!” The housekeeper’s gray eyes were shining with excitement. “Indeed, I shall speak to the earl about giving a ball in honor of Master James…and to introduce Mrs. Ford to the neighborhood.”

  She circled the stepstool and stood before Rebecca, a happy smile deepening every crease and wrinkle in her face.

  “We simply must start showing you off, my dear. You are absolutely too lovely to be keeping yourself hidden as you have.”

  For a lifetime, Rebecca had trained herself to look plain. Always, she had striven to look severe, to appear much older than she was. From the set of her mouth to the expression in her eyes to the binding of her mane of unruly flaming hair, she had tried to fade into the background…to go unnoticed. From the time she left London, she’d always been fairly successful.

  Rebecca now stared at the reflection of stranger in the looking glass and felt her stomach turn.

  CHAPTER 12

  Carrying a basket of food between them, they walked to the old mill for a picnic.

  Jamey had been the perfect child for all of the morning, paying attention to Mr. Clarke’s instruction, and later spending some time with Daniel, learning his way about the large house. Regardless of the complimentary words and the obvious relief on the part of the steward and the housekeeper, though, Rebecca had taken one look into the restless blue eyes and she had known it was time to give the lad a chance to break loose for a while.

  Coming from the less formal style of living that they’d led in Philadelphia, life at Solgrave surely must appear quite restrictive for Jamey, Rebecca realized. Every moment of the day seemed to have some significance. Rebecca knew she would have to combine the ‘business’ of the boy’s new life with some opportunity to play and to run.

  The two of them found a stretch of soft grass near the ruined mill. She put down the basket near a clump of willow trees, delighted to see the look of mischief in his eyes.

  “May I ruin these new clothes?”

  “You certainly may not ruin them.” She smiled at the upturned face and undid the ribbon of the straw hat Mrs. Pringle had forced her to wear with the new dress. “Though I don’t believe a bit of dusting would hurt…but give me that jacket!”

  Shedding the garment, the boy threw himself with a loud whoop on the grass and rolled down the long slope toward the lake. It was too late to mention that stains from the grass were a little different from a bit of dust, so she just sighed and then laughed at his antics.

  Rebecca pulled a small blanket from the basket that Mrs. Trent had sent in with them and spread it on the grass. Kneeling down, she began taking out the food and watching Jamey as he climbed on a boulder at the edge of the water.

  She sat back on her heels, frowning. Rebecca had not questioned Jamey about what he had done and where he had gone three days earlier. Hearing his murmurs of apologies and sensing his fears of being left alone, she had made a pact with herself simply to look ahead and to continue to encourage him during the adjustments he had to make. He was only a boy, and running away was the most natural thing to do in a moment of stress. After all, hadn’t she herself done the same thing so many years ago?

  And yet, here she was, back in England—the one place she had sworn she would never return to.

  “Can I go swimming?” He had doffed his shoes and stockings, and was standing in the water

  “You cannot. The lake water is too cold.”

  Jamey gave Rebecca a wry look and then ran up the slope, throwing himself in her arms. The two sprawled on the blanket, her straw hat flying into the grass. His sleeves were already wet.

  “I’m sweating, and the water’s fine. Please, Mama...please let me go in! You know I’m a good swimmer.”

  It was true. Thanks to the Butler boys, Jamey had been swimming in the Delaware River for the past four summers. Those boys spent a great deal of time down at the waterfront, leaping off the piers and playing.

  “Come and feel the water yourself, Mama. Come and see. It’s really warm.”

  Rebecca let him pull her to her feet, but went no closer to the lake. Dressed as she was, she had no intention of walking back to Solgrave in ruined clothes.

  “Come and check the water yourself,” he wheedled. “It’s much warmer than dockside…even in July.”

  Rebecca tucked a strand of her hair that had come loose from its ribbon behind an ear. She unpinned the lace-edged scarf she’d been wearing around her neck and placed it on the blanket. She then walked with him to the edge of the lake. The water, so gray and muddied a day before, now ran clear. Along the shallow edges she could see tiny fish flitting along a sandy bottom.

  “Please, Mama!” he tugged on her arm. “I have been the best lad. You saw it yourself. I gave no trouble to Mr. Clarke, even though I was sorely tempted. Please!”

  Rebecca couldn’t resist the upturned face. The eyes turned mischievous when he saw that he had her convinced. He knew exactly how to melt her heart.

  “I have nothing to dry you with.”

  He quickly began stripping off his clothes. “Never mind about that. You just sit up on the blanket. I can use that…or I’ll just lie in the sun until I’m dry.”

  “What about all
the food we’ve carried down here?”

  “We’ll eat it later. Turn around, Mama!”

  He paused until she had turned to go back up to the blanket. In a moment she heard him splashing into the deeper water.

  “You be careful…not too far out!”

  ***

  Spurring his fresh hunter along the lake, Stanmore’s irritation only grew sharper. He had pushed his favorite bay gelding harder than he should have on the ride from London, but that vague sense of impatience nagging at him had been unsettling, to say the least. Why, he’d left Philip and the entourage of servants in his dust long before they had even reached Marylebone.

  Upon arriving at Solgrave, the earl’s first question had been about Mrs. Ford, and Daniel had hastily informed him that she and James had gone off on their own toward the old mill.

  He’d dreamed about her again last night. Rebecca had come to him as he’d seen her in James’s bedchamber three nights ago. She’d come to him—at first modest and ill at ease—presenting herself as she had on every occasion that they had met. But as the gauzy fabric of his dreams continued to weave, he’d peeled her reserve. He’d awakened this morning restless, anxious to see her.

  Physical attraction to a beautiful woman was an old game to a man of Stanmore’s age and experience. But the realization that Rebecca Ford was, at the very least, hiding any interest she might have in him and perhaps even fighting it, aroused his curiosity. The fact that she obviously had no intention of pursuing or encouraging him, as other women so often did, only aroused his curiosity that much more. There was an innocence in it. The quality she possessed was not the childish, annoying coyness found in so many young women of the ton—but a charming, honest kind of struggle.

  Despite her modesty, though, she was attracted to him. He had seen the gentle blush, the trembling hand, the way her stormy eyes had studied all of him that night outside of her room. There were definitely enough telltale signs to tease him and even unsettle his dreams.